“I’ve come to a frightening
conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal
approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather.
As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or
joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can
humiliate or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a
crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child humanized or dehumanized.”
~ Haim G. Ginott
Making the decision to be a teacher is one that should not
be taken lightly. While on a surface level, it may appear to some people to be
a fabulous profession offering summers off; teaching really has to be in your
blood.
Think of the challenging stages your own child has gone
through. Of course you worked
through these phases with your child. (Think Terrible Twos, puberty,
adolescence…) Now imagine that there are teachers who actually choose
to work with children during these developmentally challenging times, every
day, year in and year out. Teachers choose the level they want to teach:
elementary, middle, or high school.
Although they can be moved up or down a little by their administrator,
they and their administrator know what age child they work best with.
During my early years growing up, I have memories of playing
teacher. I would line up my many
stuffed animals and dolls on my bed.
They would always listen attentively as I played teacher, telling them
what to do or teaching them something.
When my younger siblings were old enough to play, I used them
instead. We had little desks that
I would have them sit at and they willingly played along with their big
sister.
I loved being a student too. I remember coming home from school in first grade and
sitting at the kitchen table, eager to do my work. I thought of it as a challenge to see if I knew the answers
and I was always pleased that I did.
I loved learning and that did not change throughout my school-age years.
When I was in college and was home for break, I would come
home well after my parents went to sleep.
My mother would always leave a note on the kitchen table. It reminded the last one in to lock up,
turn the outside lights off, and things of that nature. As I read it, I couldn’t help but to
make corrections if there were spelling or usage errors. I know my mom wrote it when she was
sleepy and not paying attention to correct grammar, but I couldn’t help myself;
it was in my blood.
When I had children of my own, I loved teaching them things,
as all parents do. They were very
eager to learn from me when they were young and I relished every moment of
it. But at some point, they pull
away from parental help. I now
know that it is a natural part of the process, but I had a hard time with it
back then. I would hear things
like, “Just because you are a teacher, doesn’t mean you know what my
teacher wants.” They were right.
I work with 10-12 year olds. For seven years I taught fifth grade (10-11) and then I switched
to sixth grade (11-12). I love
this age. I describe it best by
saying that they ‘will still do anything for a sticker’. I would not choose to work with high
school students, nor would I choose to work with kindergarteners. I find my fifth and sixth grade
students easy and fun to work with.
Yet, when I talk to early elementary or high school teachers, they
comment they don’t know how I can work with that age. I return the sentiment. Teachers have to find their niche, whether it is the level
or the subject they teach.
The 11-year old mind thinks its own way. When one of our students was moving to
another state mid-year, the other kids wrote goodbye cards. While most said they would miss him,
wished him luck, hoped he would like his new school and make new friends, one
student said ‘I hope your things don’t break.’ Although that is not something I would think of to worry
about, that was a concern for him.
Last year I gathered all my classes into one room to
announce that I would be out of school for a while because I was having a knee
replacement. I told them my knee
was worn out. When we returned to
our smaller classes, one girl asked what my knee looked like. I looked at her with a puzzled look and
told her it looked just like her knee and asked why. She said she wanted to know what a knee looked like when it
was worn out. I then understood,
and told her it was the inside that was worn out and assured
her that the outside looked very much like anyone else’s knee. I imagine she was picturing a
disintegrating piece of flesh…
Teachers really need to understand the way the brains of their students
work.
When our sons got older, they and my husband had to endure
living with a sixth-grade teacher.
I used to repeat a task multiple times, restating it differently, making
sure they understood what I said.
I would break down simple tasks, draw maps or diagrams, correct
spelling, and tell corny jokes.
They were all very patient with me, especially my husband. He used to look at me and smile. That’s when I realized I couldn’t turn
it off. I didn’t need to repeat
and restate for him, but it just came out of my mouth.
I finally realized I needed to
acknowledge that my sons were growing up.
They didn’t want to hear the corny jokes or want me proofreading their
papers. They wanted to be
independent in school. It was very
hard for me, but I had no choice.
I raised strong independent boys who were as stubborn as I was in some
respects. “The object of teaching a child is to enable him to get along without a
teacher.” ~ Elbert Hubbard.
Teaching is also the only profession I know that forces you to have an official photo taken each year. Looking through the school yearbooks, you can reflect on your better hairstyles and have a good laugh. You can also notice the subtle changes from year to year of the aging process. I'm not sure if this is good or bad...
Sometimes a profession is in your blood. For me, I can’t help but being a
teacher. I love to impart
knowledge and watch as light bulbs go off, paving the way to enlightenment. I love making an impact on a child’s
life. I love when students come
back to visit and a few of them tell me that they are going to become teachers
because of me. That is what being
a teacher is all about.
Although I miss my stuffed animals, I love having real
students who can smile.
 |
| Around the age I knew I wanted to be a teacher... |
